poetry

I raise a glass
to wild tapping poets,
tongue tied visionaries,
cross-country political purists
looking for the good stuff,
addicted to the story
of childhood nations
good and true and brave,
with all Deities on their side

I like shaking my tits;
she’s watching me dance,
shimmy the world away.
There’s freedom,
on the dance floors,
in America these days.
Lost in the rhythm
between the beats,
there’s easy smiles
and sloppy desires as we’re
emptied out, staggering,
upon more equal streets

I’ll let you tattoo
this Chronic heart,
while my wordy lips
read your angel parts,
taste a hungry tongue,
feel your softened hip.
The throaty murmur,
of an angel’s refrain,
“She’s got another earth.
She’s got some other sky.”
We danced there once,
and made Sappho cry.

I have auspicious tents
of Baily’s Pearls, set aside,
for this dark world girl;
not for her song
of Goddess skin, or
her serrano curls,
but for her being;
which grew gracious,
against a hard white wind.
She’s been my sister,
a sweet silhouette;
a figgy desert oasis.

Thu, 19 Jan 2006

I do want not a love
beginning where I or she left off.
I want to explore new horizons,
not abandoned moorings.

We wait, ruined eyed,
for too long starring
at suns falsified by dogma.

We wait, faith rendered,
in softened servitude
and a force fed twilight.

We wait, souls questioned,
by incense ghosts and
ephemera tonnage.

We wait, slip tongued,
childish cataracts lip-syncing
ancient universal parity.